


Heirs To Endless Woes

by Provocatrixxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Allegory, Character Study, Christmas, Christmas Tree, Gen, Introspection, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's battered now, his gold star, stripped of glitter in some places, and its top point is bent off at an angle, ruining the symmetry. Mycroft raises it into the light and looks at it critically, watching the glitter run off it in a steady stream into the box.</i>
</p><p>Mycroft decorates the tree with some ghosts from Christmases past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heirs To Endless Woes

**Author's Note:**

> Surely I can't be the only person who grew up with colour-coordinated Christmas Tree decorations?

There's been a tree by the great stair every Christmas that Mycroft can remember - great Norwegian pines encircled by the oak banisters all the way to the third floor. When they were children, he and Sherlock would take it in turns to pick the star for the top of the tree and run up three flights to reach through the banisters and set it on the highest branch. Sherlock prefered the silver star of course, the one with a hundred spikes covered in glitter to go with his royal blue tinsel and shining silver bells. Mycroft is more dignified. His star is an elongated garter star in glorious gold to go with the decadent ruby tinsel and scattered gold baubles peeking out from amongst the dark green.

It's battered now, his gold star, stripped of glitter in some places, and its top point is bent off at an angle, ruining the symmetry. Mycroft raises it into the light and looks at it critically, watching the glitter run off it in a steady stream into the box. The bed of gold tinsel that the star rested on is similarly tattered, dull even with all the lights in the hall shining on it. He strokes his fingers through the soft strand as he presses the star back into the box, closing the lid gently and sealing it shut again. His decorations are too old and shabby to grace even this more modest tree.

The string of gold lights is already wrapped into the branches of course; Simon saw to that before leaving for the night. Mycroft leans back against the banister for a moment, taking in the soft glow of tiny bulbs between the branches, considering leaving the tree bare. There’s only him left to properly appreciate it, after all, and he has always prefered elegant simplicity over ostentation. The bareness of the branches tugs at him though, as though the darkness of the needles is sucking the rest of the light from the room. He can’t leave it like that, half-bedecked and pathetic-looking. The tree should have baubles at the very least.

Mycroft lifts the box of decorations and carries it back into the corner, setting it down beside the cardboard box marked ‘Silver/Blue’ in Father’s elegant scrawl. The other box is coated in a layer of dust, sagging slightly with age, and Mycroft barely has to apply pressure to peel the tape off the lid. He parts the cardboard carefully, mindful of the glittering spikes that await his tender hands. The blue tinsel is crushed against the top of the box, and Mycroft runs his hands through the softness of it, parting it until he finds the flimsier plastic box and Sherlock’s glittering silver star. It’s aged better than his has, glitter clinging to the sharp spikes, catching the light in tiny holographic rainbows. It ought to be gaudy, but there’s something fragile about it, and Mycroft turns it slowly under the lights, watching the glitter catch and fade.

He pulls the decorations from the box slowly, sorting them into neat little piles from pure habit. Sherlock’s tinsel is rich and dark still, protected from the years by the solid cardboard, the care with which their father had once taped up the box. He ought to wreathe the tree in blue for the sake of aesthetics - smart, glittering tinsel and baubles to charm those he has to entertain over the coming weeks. Function must rule over sentimentality in the end.

The bells are packed away in the very bottom of the box, a round hundred of them in tiny plastic moulds, their ribbons looped under the clappers to muffle the sound. 

It takes 80 bells to adorn the branches to his satisfaction, and a full half hour to calculate the correct distribution for them to look artfully scattered. He works in silence, stepping back after every five bells to take in the overall picture. He knows when it is done because he stands back with his arms cross and nods twice, just like father used to do. Mycroft shrugs the ghost of him off again, sinking to his knees to repack the tangled ropes of tinsel.

He leaves the star until last. It’s the crowning piece after all, and it would make no sense to have it up before the tree is complete. The spikes streak glitter across his hands as he climbs the stairs, leaning out across the bannisters to settle it on the highest branch. It’s the perfect crown, a shining example to the bells that sit below it, and Mycroft brushes the worst of the glitter off his hands as he descends the stairs, admiring the tree as he turns around it.

“How brightly shines the morning star with grace and truth from heaven afar,” he says, and the words echo in the darkness of the house.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the lyrics of [Truth Sent from Above](www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/truth_sent_from_above.htm).
> 
> The lyrics that Mycroft quotes at the end are from [Three Kings from Persian Lands](http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/three_kings_from_persian_lands_a.htm).


End file.
